


One Clover, and a Bee

by Anonymous



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, M/M, maybe not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5320241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim never left Iowa, but then he doesn't really mind. Most of the time, the farmhouse acts like a whiny mistress: always demanding for more of his touch, always getting his hands busy all the time. He doesn’t have the energy or time for anything else, until a Vulcan appears on the other side of his fence and turns his world upside down. Or inside out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Clover, and a Bee

There’s a pair of feet standing on the other side of the fence, and it may have been a split-second or an eternity before Jim notices. He’s got selective hearing and a messed up sense of time when he’s absorbed at work; judging from the current state of his red and numb hands, he’s been at it for hours, looping and splicing wires to the fence marking his property. He neither hears an approaching footfall, nor a friendly greeting.

As far as Jim’s concerned, one minute, he was alone on his wooded yard, and then, there’s a Vulcan standing there with him. The one before him is vaguely familiar – every surface neat and prim, all long limbs and sharp– maybe that’s just the Vulcan genotype. He hasn’t met a lot of them, that’s for sure. But this one’s even huddled in a long-sleeved tunic, although it’s only midday on the start of fall, and wearing a startled expression on his vulpine face. Jim relaxes his guard, comforted by the fact that  someone else’s vulnerability show so plainly on their eyes. 

“You're Spock, I suppose,” Jim says, when they're on eye level. The name is on the tip of is tongue and it rolls off easily when he tries to recall. Jim doesn’t know any Vulcan personally, and his recollection of Spock is sketchy at best, but he knows enough to not reach out his hand over the half-mangled fence in the midst of repair to offer his hand for a shake. Spock’s hands are fisted on his side, but they look clean and delicate and totally uninviting of Jim’s dirty palms. For good measure, Jim wipes his palms on his pants before raising his hands in a salute.  “You bought off the old Kincaid land, yeah?”

“I am.” Spock appears hesitant, perhaps weary at being recognized. He returns Jim’s salute after a brief pause. “I did.”

Jim's hands stray to his back pockets, twitching to pick up the hammer he'd left on the dirt and continue with his work. The afternoon warmth is neither harsh nor lacking, cocooning him in a pleasant, mindless state with his muscle memory doing the brunt of the work. He doesn’t want to be an unwelcoming neighbor, but interruptions in his farm work are pretty rare, visitors more so. Even his neighbors, Jim can count by one hand. Sometimes, he goes for ages without seeing anyone at all.

“You only got here, huh? You have your work ahead of you, then.”

“Yes,” Spock nods, although he seems unsure of his own words. “I'm...  here,” he supplies, unhelpfully.

“Yes,” Jim says, his voice cracking a bit before letting out a chuckle he hasn’t expected to come. “I can see that.” The rumble in his throat sounds hoarse to his ears, voice rusty from disuse. He hasn't really much heard himself talk these days. “You’re really Spock, aren’t you? You didn’t happen to be lost in the middle of the woods or something?”

“I am Spock,” he says.

“Alright, if you say so,” Jim laughs. He fiddles absently with the wire fence between them— a veritable divide if he ever saw one.

“I will be here for a while.” He says this with much conviction and finality. “I would like to extend any assistance you may need.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” Jim chuckles awkwardly. The notion of asking for help in his daily tasks is so strange that it's funny. “I'm sorry I can't invite you in for a chat today, though. I'm trying to finish the fence before tonight. I saw a deer yesterday, and I have a vegetable patch, so.” He trails off, none-too-subtly. Manners and empathy aren't really his best suits, especially when there's no one to practice it with in the dinner table.

“I had been told that farming communities rely heavily on neighborly cooperation.”

“If _you_ find yourself needing help, well,” Jim trails off again, scratching his nape. He’s unwilling to offer, despite that the picture of Spock is an unsightly intrusion. His pale cheeks and slim fingers are an anomalous rarity from the sun-baked and calloused ones Jim has had the chance to encounter thus far in this part of town. Beneath his stretchy blue tunic, there’s a promise of lithe muscles, if anyone’s curious enough to imagine. Not that Jim is particularly curious or imaginative. “Just hop over the fence or walk around it. My house isn’t very far off from here, in that direction.”

Spock nods. “I will see you around, then,” he says, pausing meaningfully.

“Oh, it’s Jim.” He smiles. Saying his name invigorates him a little, like he claimed a part of his humanity by having one. “Jim Kirk.”

“Jim,” Spock repeats. Coming from him, his name sounds like an affirmation. Jim decides he likes it. “I will see you.”

Jim crouches back to his work eventually. The sound of crunching leaves beneath Spock's feet as he retreats crisp in Jim’s ears fades into the backdrop of the rigor of his routine.

 

*

 

 

Time is relative, that’s a fundamental law of physics. Jim knows this, all the way back from 3rd grade when he read about dilation and space in relation to the class discussion about the solar system. He was one weird kid, truly. But he feels this fact most profoundly from the way his days seem to burn faster under the heat of the Iowan sun while he circumnavigates the same old house he grew up in. In never leaving the same damn town.

Not that he minds though.  Most of the time, the farmhouse acts like a whiny mistress: always demanding for more of his touch, always getting his hands busy all the time. After the ice thawed during early spring, he began restoring the farmhouse from top to bottom; it’s the busiest he’s ever been yet. There are holes in his roof that happen to need constant patching, and he plans to fix them for good this time. Hours and hours were spent scraping, sanding, caulking, and painting the plank ceiling, while replacing the wide-plank hemlock flooring that had been hidden under the linoleum for ages is going on at a glacial pace. Everything’s meticulous work. The chipped paint in the woodwork surrounding the house is a reminder of the long toil ahead of him, but the work is hardly a hardship. When he’s collapsed in bed at the end of the day, heavy-lidded and bone-tired, he doesn’t have the energy to think in abstractions anymore.

He leaves the farmland as he found it, probably rented out, and the acres of golden corn stalks as far as he can see from the farmhouse prove that the field is tended to. He has no animals — he can’t say he ever plans on having them, that part isn’t much settled yet. Early in the year, he cleared a part of his backyard to plot a vegetable patch on a fertile spot. After a month or so, he had a view of rows and rows of little green sprouts from his kitchen window and juicy tomatoes to eat everyday by summer. He's waiting for his first cantaloupes to ripen up, and he’s started reading up on how to make preserves. All things considered, it's a living.

If he never gets another glimpse the awkward Vulcan with the fingers and shoulders and the slim hips and the, well, he doesn’t have the time to afford to think about it.

 

 

*

 

 

Spock shows up in his doorstep. Jim is caught off-guard. “I would like to borrow a trowel,” the Vulcan says, like he’s on a mission to save the world and getting a trowel will save the day. Jim doesn’t know what to say to that; he surreptitiously glances down to what he’s wearing — a thinning wife-beater, faded old jeans with open gashes on the knee — and notices that he's also barefoot, looking like the dumb hick which he might be, when it comes down to it. Self-awareness hits him like a punch in the face. There are times that he gets an impression that he only exists when someone sees him, like now, as Spock's looking at him, measuring his reaction. It's a classic debate — a tree, a forest and a fall — and it's a bit too metaphysical for the barefoot farm boy he just acknowledged to being.

Jim invites him in, suddenly conscious of his surroundings. His metaphorical forest isn't slovenly, merely plain and gauche in the harsh morning light coming in through the windows. There’s no technology lying around, not in any way sophisticated like Spock must have been used to. He doesn't know what Spock does exactly, but he can guess. Spock has this look like he's known so much grandeur in life that it has rubbed off on him that it will probably take an actual supernova for him to be impressed. Here, inside Jim's barren space, the walls are unadorned, the floor could use waxing and the carpet a thorough dusting. Jim wants to hide them all from Spock's view, but he resists. Instead, he motions for Spock to sit on the worn, ratty couch that he peed in when he was six, and goes straight to the mudroom in the back to get the trowel.

“Here you go.” Jim places the tool in the table in front of Spock when he comes back. Spock’s unmoving presence is jarring, even though his lean frame is folded in an odd angle against the sofa. The scene is out of sorts, but Spock doesn’t say a word of discomfort. It’s all very beguiling, Jim can’t help asking. “Why do you need this anyway? You don't exactly look like the farming type.”

Spock takes a moment to reply. He does this, Jim notices. Spock is deliberate, measured even in his trivial gestures. Jim gets an urge to bombard him with questions, just to see if Spock can keep up.   “I am not the type,” he says steadily, “but I figured, I might as well plant, given that I am at a farm.”

Jim snorts. “Well, that's certainly adaptable of you. But hey, I'm pretty sure the old owners of the farmhouse you bought has a spare trowel in a shed or something.” He’s not the most sociable neighbor, sure, but the odds are high that everyone around here has a digging tool of some sort. It’s practically the price of admittance in this town.

Spock nods, looking thoughtful. “That might be the case, but in an assortment of rudimentary gardening equipment, I am not sure which one is the trowel, and I am only informed which one to use, but not of their appearances.”

“Your gardening research must have been antiquated then, because you don't look like the impulsive type.” Jim ‘s eyes wander, feigning disinterest.

Spock tilts his head before regarding Jim. “It appears you have judged my personality in an alarming frequency on the basis of my appearance. I did not think you were, as they say, 'the type' to judge.”

Surprise was an element Jim least expected from Spock, and it tugs a chortle from Jim before he tamps it down to a teasing smirk.  “Then you don't know anything at all about us townies, Spock. We get bored easily and make up a lot of stories.”

“And you are one of them?”

Spock has a predilection towards obvious statements, though there’s enough earnestness in his eyes that confuses Jim, as if they’re talking about different things entirely. Jim shrugs and says nothing.  He's expecting a quick thanks and an exit, but Spock only relaxes his back minutely and clasps and unclasps his hands. They might be playing a game, but with Spock, Jim can hardly tell. After Spock’s non-reply, Jim clears his throat and speaks. “Uh,” he begins, breaking their silent impasse. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“I am amenable to tea,” Spock says, and Jim swears it’s a relieved exhale that Spock breathes out. “If you have it.”

“I don’t drink tea, sorry.” In a form of silent protest, Jim doesn’t mention he has a replicator that comes with the standard menu.

“I’ll have what you are having, then.”

When Jim sets down a cup of tea, Spock opens his mouth, only to close them again. Jim doesn’t say a word either, just watches Spock as he sips the swill-like tea that came out of Jim’s replicator, wisps of his hot breath visible under the pale window light. He doesn’t have the heart to be impatient and tell Spock to hurry the fuck up, not when Spock’s being all quiet and polite. Yet again, he gets the feeling he’s being played here. If this is chess, Jim thinks Spock got all his pieces set in the right positions by the way he’s drinking his tea extra slowly with a satisfied expression. He hasn’t figured out Spock’s end goal just yet.

“So what type are you?”

“Pardon me?” Spock has the most adorable befuddled expression, Jim makes it his mission to catch him unawares as often as he can.

“You said you weren’t the farming type, so why are you here in Riverside, of all places?”

“I was trying to recover something.”

“An archaeologist then,” Jim says quickly, challenging. “Not sure how that’s gonna pan out for you. If there were any dinosaurs around here, I’m sure my old man Tiberius or _his_ grandpa would have gotten to the bones first.”

“I was uninformed farmers dig that deep when they plant corn,” Spock says solemnly.

“I don’t know, you’re the expert on digging. You tell me.”

“Jim, if I was indeed an archaeologist, would you not presume I would bring my own digging material?” Spock’s lips quirk and his eyes glint, and Jim realizes he’s teasing. He even said Jim’s name. “Especially since you have a way of presuming things about people.”

Laughter erupts out of Jim’s surprise. “Smug Vulcan, you are,” he says, grinning.

“My point, precisely,” Spock says serenely, and Jim doubles over in laughter.Jim returns Spock’s inquiring eyes with a smile and leans back in his chair. “You're really something, aren't you, Mr. Spock?” he says, and beams harder at Spock’s answering eyebrow. “What are you planning on planting, anyway?”

Their talk about seeds branches out to botany, to a guy named Sulu Spock’s sure Jim will be happy to meet, which then blossoms to the philosophy of post-warp agriculture. He’s surprised he even has something to say, but he gives as much as he can take. If he gets a rise out of Spock, when he’s championing the cause of Terran farmers in the face of aggressive trade relations in the Federation, just for the sake of being contrary—it’s a bonus. They keep on going in a very tempered tit-and-tat long after Spock's tea had gone cold, and Jim has to make himself coffee to keep up with the conversation. Jim had thought about the idea of tilling his land, the theoretical terms of his daily life, for the first time, maybe ever, and he keeps replaying their conversation long after Spock has gone home for the day.

 

 

*

 

 

Spock looks like he exists out of space time. Even as he’s borrowing pruning shears and standing right there in the middle of Jim’s living room for the second time, his presence there is weightless and the heaviest Jim’s ever felt. Jim’s still unprepared for his world to be warped.

“Jim?”

“Oh,” he says, snapping out of his stupor. “Sure, sure, but I left it in my backyard. I was just using it. Wait here.” Jim walks to the direction of the back door. Spock follows him closely behind. “Pretty neat, huh,” he says. He tries to see the world through Spock’s eyes: all high fences and growing greens.

“Do not hasten your process on my behalf,” Spock says. He crouches to poke at a ripe tomato hanging lowly from its tree.  “I am gratified to see your yard.”

Jim smiles, satisfied. Spock examines his plants closely, one by one, while Jim prunes his vines. After a while, he breaks their peaceful détente.  “You branching out to gardening now?”

“No,” he hears Spock, standing not far to his right. He squints at the top of Jim’s trellis, seeming lost in thought. “Although I have no qualms about gardening.”

“Oh yeah, flowers are awesome. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise,”

“I assure you, I have respect for all living things, and fond regard.”

“That’s what I like about you, Mr. Spock,” he muses.

“Yours appear to be growing healthily.” Jim hums in agreement. “Although I cannot help but notice that if you attach a perpendicular structure not more than twelve inches for structural integrity, so that the trellis may be able to withstand the additional weight of the fruit should they grow more massive. You may also add a hull-like enclosure facing the east, to take advantage of the sunrise.”

Jim stares at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

“It will also make for a lovely walkway,” Spock points out.

“I’m gonna make some lemonade.” He stomps off inside the house and into the kitchen and fumes clumsily with ice cubes. He comes back out with a pitcher-full of lemonade and an old notebook and a pencil that he shoves into Spock’s chest. “Well? Show me!”

The better part of the afternoon was spent sketching a design for a brand-new trellis for Jim’s yard and debating the architecture of it. Spock’s lines are wobbly, even with his steady fingers, and Spock mustn’t be architect nor an artist, and Jim tells him this gleefully. Spock huffs in a frustrated breath that the drawing is not up to scale. “Whatever you say, Mr. Spock,” he singsongs, and pats him in the back, and laughs, and laughs, because it's ungainly; he has so many things to do, but he allows himself to be idle, for once.  He doesn’t bother asking so many questions he isn’t prepared to delve into just yet. Whatever the slow, lazy hum that seemed to reverberate in his veins, it might be contentment, or something akin to it. Spock stays until late afternoon, and when he trudges back into the night and when Jim goes to tidy up his kitchen, he sees the pruning shears laying forgotten on the table.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Spock is kneeling before a box of tools that Jim owns:  a mishmash of circuit boards, a tangle of wires and dismembered hunk of machines from broken appliances around the house. They agreed to make a farmbot so Jim can actually till some of the land he owns. It hits Jim out of nowhere, the urgency to ask coming from the back of his head. “What are you really doing around here?”

Spock looks up at him in surprise. He puts back Jim’s old flo-yo (which hadn't seemed appealing at all to play with when his brother) back to the pile of pieces of things he seemed to have forgotten ever existed. It’s an odd sight to see alien hands — alien to him, anyway — touch something so integral to who Jim is.

“I did not mean harm,” he says,  averting his eyes.

“No, I just,” Jim shrugs, digging through the box himself.  “I realized I never got an answer, is all.”

Spock didn’t answer back, and that’s fine with Jim. He would’ve taken the question back if he could. But Spock eventually breaks their silence. “I did not mean to overstay my welcome, Jim, but I —”

“No, really, Spock. It’s fine,” Jim says, waving him off.

“—visited because I was told that is what f— I assumed that I was doing what friends ought to do.”  A faint green blush spreads to his neck, in Jim’s peripheral view. “

Jim isn't really curious, but there is a nagging compulsion in him to drive Spock off and out his land, and it won’t go away. It niggles at his chest and throbs at the back of his head, even when he's sitting down, and the Earth’s spinning slows down like molasses, while Spock chats away or vice versa: he knows he should catch up on his repairs, dig some dirt, fix the damn heating. He chalks it up to too much familiarity with solitude. The battle to just pick up his tools and shoo his only company away has been fought well and good. As it is, his front porch will not get straightened by itself before winter, and he hasn’t even taken a look at his backyard patch since Spock left yesterday.

Jim finds he wants to delay every time Spock needs to go. When Spock quietly listens to him talk, with as little to contribute as a nod, or a pithy monologue about science and ethics, Jim finds that he can't bring himself to care about everything outside their little bubble. He didn't even know he wanted to talk until Spock was there to listen.

“S’fine,” Jim mumbles. He joins Spock in rummaging through the contents of the box.

“Would you have me go?” Spock asks quietly.

“No,” Jim blurts out with an urgency. “No, it’s okay,” he repeats himself. 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Spock is unfailing in his daily visits. There are batches and batches of tea, and Jim doesn't seem to be running out. Jim forgets about the holes in the roof when they're talking about the stack of old dusty paperbacks in the attic, or when Spock talks about his mixed heritage, and there’s a sadness in his eyes that stopped Jim from asking why he visits again, so Jim talks about his own story, about how he was uneasy not fitting in this tiny house and tiny town. His recollection is bleak and bleary, like it happened so long ago in another life, the whole notion is ironic. But then Spock shakes him from his daze and talks about Science, because that’s something unconditional regardless of the slant of one’s eyebrows, and Jim could definitely relate to that.

Spock suggests extending the trellis to the front yard with flowers instead of fruits , because his mother loved bougainvillea and moonflowers, and Jim asks him about developing strains of corn that can withstand harsher climates in other planets, and everything is all so fascinating to Jim. A part of him wonders, wants to ask to whose benefit Spock is doing these visits, but he doesn’t dare to.

 

 

*

 

 

When Spock isn’t intruding on his plans of the house and his plot, he’s asking Jim to take a walk. Spock regales him with tales of the big shipyard about a few miles from his farm, or the monument being built there. Sometimes, it’s just the benefit of the sun on his health, or the tempered strain on his legs. Spock has tells, and his eagerness shows in the shine of his eyes. Jim will pretend to listen, and he nods along pretending to consider. Lying was worth it to hear Spock invite him out for another day.

His defenses melt slowly, as snow surely thaws beneath the sun. A part of him is angry at Spock’s persistence, a part, afraid that that persistence wouldn’t last. Every time, he still manages to smile politely and shakes his head, manages to say no for another day.

 

 

*

 

 

Spock kneels beside Jim as he tends to his patch. The scene etches itself to his memory: Spock sinking his knees onto the dirt, Spock’s hair flattened by a wide-brimmed hat that Jim removed from his own head to plop it on Spock, Spock giving him a not-smile with a tiny glint in his eye  before digging his fingers into the soil to dig out the weeds beside him. Jim will still be as mesmerized with his delicate hands, later, when Spock rubs himself free of grime under the spray of water in the kitchen sink while Jim cuts his first cantaloupe of the year. Or when Spock’s closing those fingers around the slice Jim offers him, a gentle flood of nectar sluicing down his wrist. Those hands make everything they touch turn to gold, Jim thinks. At that moment, Jim feels disoriented, like his equilibrium has tipped unequivocally to one edge, upending him over. Towards what, he wasn’t sure yet.

 

 

*

 

 

“Do you want to take a walk with me, Jim?” Spock is standing by the doorway, the sky outside especially dim. He usually leaves when the sun has well sunk in. The urge to stop him is stronger than ever. Sometimes, he wants to block the door and ask where he goes off to when he leaves Jim’s farmhouse at night, what he does when he’s alone and who he seeks out, and sometimes, Spock looks at him as if he's expecting Jim to ask. Jim never does.

Inside of him is an endless chant of _dontgodontgodontgo_ but instead, he says through gritted teeth, “I can't, Spock, I'm sorry. I have,” he exhales, motions vaguely with his hands, “things to do. I'm running out of time, actually. I forgot I have errands to run.” It breaks his heart to say them but he knows he’s supposed to. He doesn’t know why, precisely, but every nerve in his body tells him to stay put. He can’t move. He’s incapable of crossing that space between himself and the confines of his prison where Spock is standing at the edge, beckoning him out.

 Disappointment clouds Spock’s face; Jim can’t blame him, because he’s disappointed with himself. He wants to hide, except the sky is already darkening outside, it's illogical to take a walk now, and Jim tells Spock this. Spock has already turned towards the door, a harsh gale shutting the door with a bang. For a long time, Jim’s agitated.  He paces around the house, unable to do anything useful.

Restlessness grips Jim that night. Around him, the house screeches and wails in its wake as it takes a heavy battering from the rain. It feels like it won’t stand through the night.  Jim can hear the dripping water pattering in from where he neglected to patch them, also the thump of a loose plywood banging in the wind. He curls in on himself. Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow he'll start to fortify the house like he originally meant to, before the fall, before Spock. He grips his blankets more tightly to himself, burrowing in while seeking warmth.

A knock on the door startles him alert. That he heard it over the howling storm is a wonder to him but he's sprinting in an instant, making a mad dash towards the door. Spock is there, hair plastered to his forehead, the crisp shirt he had worn earlier sticking to his skin.

“Jim, there’s something I— “ Jim cuts him off, drawing him inside by his arm.

“Wait here,” he says, before grabbing a towel in a nearby hamper and wrapping it around Spock, dabbing the hem to catch the droplets of water trickling down his face. Jim’s hands are so drawn to touch, but Jim removes himself to get spare clothes. Spock stops him, grabbing his wrist.

“Jim, it is urgent,” Spock says, again, but Jim cuts him off, this time with his lips on Spock’s parted ones.  Jim pulls back and presses their lips again and again in brief little trysts before licking in the seam of Spock’s mouth. His hands wander off to Spock’s chest, but it isn’t enough. He snakes an arm in Spock’s waist, and another in his neck. Jim grasps him as drowning man holds his raft, but he wants, wants, wants more. He  to peel Spock’s shirt off his back. “Jim,” he says in the same breath as a low keen that spurs Jim’s desire. “I, we cannot,” Spock says, looking confused and off-kilter.

 Jim kisses it away, pressing open-mouthed kisses on Spock’s closed eyes, on the gap between his eyebrows, on the jut of his lovely jaws. Jim can feel a firm hand pressing on the small of his back, anchoring there. He smiles at the back of Spock’s ear. “I didn’t imagine it, right? You want me too,” he says, and licks the tip of a pointed ear. Spock’s whole body shudders in reply. He succeeds in taking the wet shirt off.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Jim says. Spock’s shiver ripples under his fingertips. He swathes Spock again with the towel; he wants to envelop Spock, really, but he settles for rubbing his hands to Spock’s arms, to warm him up. It’s just an excuse to touch and tether—he can taste the compulsion deep down his guts. “Come on,” he says, before dragging Spock upstairs.

“There’s sufficient heating here.” They’re in his room, the same room he’s had since he was young. Spock glances around, and Spock’s the one who’s half-naked, but Jim’s the one who’s vulnerable. Old, faded holos are mounted in his walls, hundreds of them plastered there – an unfamiliar life displayed on repeat. Jim scrambles to get Spock something to change into. He avoids Spock’s eyes altogether.

“No funny business, I promise,” he says, and beckons Spock forward.  Spock is climbing in the bed with him, his movements hesitant, but not lacking of grace. Jim tries to bury the war going on in him between propriety and need, he can only hope  it doesn’t show in his eyes.  When they’re lying sideways, facing each other, Jim catches Spock’s hands and encloses them in his. Jim blows a hot breath on their joined hands, before rubbing them to warm them. Spock closes his eyes, and Jim can’t help it. He presses a quick kiss in Spock’s cheek before burrowing his face in the crook of Spock’s shoulder. Spock smells a little like petrichor, but he tastes like rainwater and spicy warmth that has nothing to do with Iowa at all. “I’m just glad you’re here,” Jim mumbles to his neck.

“ _Jim_ ,” Spock says. The storm rages outside, and Jim’s whole world is melting, is falling apart, like it’s only Spock he's seeing and feeling. He clings tighter to Spock, and everything else doesn't matter anymore. Not the holes in his roof. Not the seedlings that just sprouted in his backyard.

“Jim, listen to me,” Spock calls out, again. Their breaths are short and labored now, like they’re taking turns on breathing the same air. “Let's get away, Jim. Not here, I—” and Jim's protest is swallowed whole before they even leave his mouth.

“Okay,” Jim says, planting tiny kisses in over Spock’s eyes, his pillowy cheeks, the corners of his mouth. “Okay,” he says, again, closing his eyes as fingers framing his face, reverently, and he smiles. Spock’s fingers graze his cheeks, his temples—

He opens his eyes as he traces of Spock's fingers retreat from his head.

“Oh thank God for tiny miracles.” It wasn't Spock talking. There is a short moment of disorientation before he remembers everything, and then there’s pain in his chest that has nothing at all to do with his body. He closes his eyes abruptly because he can't face the reality of the whitewashed halls of Sickbay just yet. Just hold on to yellow cornfields just a while longer—

“Oh no you don't, princess. If you think I'm letting you get shuteye just yet, after all we've done to wake you up, you're delusional.”

And Jim opens his eyes.

 


End file.
